


Survivors

by Northlight (anenko)



Category: Jeepers Creepers 2 (2003)
Genre: Community: horror_slash, F/F, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-12
Updated: 2004-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenko/pseuds/Northlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhonda can only handle so much survivor's guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivors

Scotty had been a *difficult* boyfriend, and Rhonda had sometimes been forced to bite her lip until it ached to keep from letting loose all the frustration she kept bottled up within her. She had hated his bitterness, his sullen silences, and had quickly grown bored with his fingers up her ass while his face scrunched in furious need.

She had stayed with him because it had been the thing to do. Scotty had been a high school hero, a hometown star, and dating him might have been a cliche for the head cheerleader, but it was a cliche for a *reason.* Even before championships, and newspaper articles, and the promise of a sports scholarship, Rhonda and Scotty had been friends. So, she'd put up with his anger, and his resentment, and his festering denial, and had liked him in those moments when she hadn't felt like smacking him.

Putting up with Scotty, and all the frustrations inherent in being his girlfriend, hadn't meant that Rhonda wasn't open to exploring other options. She was a healthy young woman, and Scotty. . . Scotty didn't know the first goddamn thing about turning her on, never mind getting her off. Minxie knew, and she'd never needed any coaching to bury her face between Rhonda's widespread legs. Rhonda had let Scotty fuck her, still slick and wet and hot from Minxie's hands on her tits, Minxie's tongue at her clit.

Now that Scotty was. . . gone, now that Scotty was *gone* (she had nightmares about the coppery scent of blood, of the wet squelch and tear of the knife in Scotty's arm, the pained terror in his eyes), it seemed *wrong,* somehow, to pull Minxie towards her, wrap the other girl in her arms and bury her face in her neck. Wrong, but Rhonda woke screaming from nightmares about Scotty, fingers scrambling across the bed in search of Minxie.

Rhonda had used up all of her strength on that bus, in those empty fields shadowed by the Creeper's wings. She felt weak, and lost, and unable to do anything other than wait for life to make itself right once more. She might have waited forever, had Minxie not come to her. The other girl stood in the doorway to Rhonda's room, small and hunched, with shadows beneath her eyes, and the keys to Rhonda's house in her hand. The light of the dying day was bright around the edges of Rhonda's drawn shade, and she could feel the weight of the approaching night heavy against her shoulders.

Rhonda hadn't been out of bed in days--not really, not for any of the things she'd once spent all her time and energy upon--and she still wore the panties and old gray t-shirt she'd woken up in that morning. "It'll be dark soon," Rhonda said, uselessly, stupidly, and twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt.

Minxie's lips twisted, nothing like a smile. "Night or day, it doesn't matter. He's gone, Rhonda, he's *gone.*" She took a step forward, and another, and she was on Rhonda's bed, in Rhonda's arms, face pressed tight between her breasts. Minxie's voice was muffled, but her meaning was clear: "I missed you, I missed you so goddamned much. I needed you, I *need* you, and you should have been there, why weren't you there?" and her lips tasted like tears when she pressed them to Rhonda's.

If Rhonda had been strong, she would have said: "I can't." I can't, because Scotty would have been furious if he'd known--would have hated them both to know that he'd never been enough, but Scotty was gone--Scotty was fucking *dead,* and Rhonda's skin itched with the memory of Scotty's blood drying against her hands. Rhonda wasn't strong, and right and wrong meant nothing in the here and now, not when Minxie was pressed against her.

Minxie followed Rhonda as she retreated, tumbling back into rumpled sheets that smelt of sweat and night-terrors, and her hand was already pressed between Rhonda's thighs, fingers flexing. Months now, and Minxie's fingernails hadn't been trimmed and filed, and they scrapped against Rhonda's skin as she worked past Rhonda's underwear. Rhonda squirmed and opened her mouth wide as Minxie pushed her fingers upwards, inwards, too soon, shocking.

Minxie hadn't hurt her, not ever. She'd kissed the bruises Scotty left on Rhonda's hips those nights when he'd been tired, and angry; those night when it had taken all of Rhonda's skill, and someone else's name on his lips to make Scotty come. Minxie was so intense, so desperate, and it fucking hurt, but Rhonda pulled Minxie's face into the curve of her neck. She kissed Minxie's hair, the corner of her eye, murmured wordlessly against her ear.

"I'm sorry," Minxie said.

Minxie, *Minxie,* Rhonda tried to say, but the other girl's hand was moving. Gentle, now, knowing, and Rhonda's hips bucked in welcome. Months now, longer, because they hadn't done this for weeks before the trip, for weeks before they'd found themselves living a nightmare. Rhonda gasped, and closed her eyes tight as she grabbed fistful of sheet in her trembling hands.

"I hated him," Minxie said, broken, "I hated him, and now he's *dead.*"

Rhonda's eyes flew open, but Minxie wasn't looking at her. Minxie's eyes were focused on her hand, the junction of Rhonda's thighs, and, "Jesus, Minxie, look at me!"

The first time Minxie had folded to her knees before Rhonda, she'd still be sore from Scotty's fingers, from Scotty's cock, and he had been too eager to prove himself a man to bother with making it good for Rhonda. She had been tense all day, furious and frustrated, and she hadn't been able to think at all when Minxie eased her skirt up over her hips. She had leaned her head against the locker at her back, and panted as Minxie pressed an open-mouthed kiss through Rhonda's underwear--and how the fuck hadn't she *seen* the look in Minxie's eyes, then?

Minxie had worked her mouth and fingers until Rhonda came, shuddering and gasping, and Rhonda hadn't returned the favour. Not the first time, or the second, or the third, and best friends or not, Minxie had never been *that* charitable. She'd never even imagined that the only thing that Minxie had wanted from their time together had been *Rhonda* herself--and fuck, how long had Minxie been in love with her?

How long, Rhonda wondered, how long had she loved Minxie in return?

The realization made Rhonda's throat grow tight, and her chest ache with sudden pressure. Rhonda's hair was dirty, her sheets dirtier, and Minxie's eyes were red with tears and sleepless nights--and she'd been fucking Minxie for *months* now, and she hadn't cared what it meant to Minxie, and fuck, love wasn't supposed to make you feel sick, and stupid, and *wrong.* She hadn't noticed how quiet Minxie had grown, hadn't realized, and she had used them both, Scotty and Minxie.

Minxie's fingers left slick trails down Rhonda's legs as she pressed them wider apart. She had made a mess of everything, Rhonda thought, and choked back a cry as Minxie opened her mouth against her. This moment shouldn't have existed at all--not like this, not with Scotty dead, and not with Minxie so full of despair. She didn't know how to make things right, didn't know if she should even try, and Rhonda found that love and grief felt far too much alike for comfort.

And stopped thinking at all, because Minxie was good at this, too fucking good, and Rhonda's body went taut--from her feet, pressed flat into the mattress, to her neck, arched so that her head was pressed so hard into her pillow that she could feel the pulsing of her own blood. Habit kept Rhonda silent, but she pulled her hands free from her bedsheets and lay them, trembling, against Minxie. Opened her eyes wide, wide, and felt like she was coming back to life--felt with stunning clarity the sharpness of her own breath, the slickness between her thighs, Minxie's fingers sunk deep within her--she had missed this, missed this with a passion even her grief for Scotty hadn't touched, and *fuck.*

Fuck, oh fuck, *yes.*

She couldn't remember closing her eyes, but opened them to find Minxie staring at her--mouth slick, and eyes wild. "Minxie," Rhonda said, and her voice sounded harsh to her own ears, rough with disuse. "Minxie, I--" I understand. I love you, too, and I'm so, so sorry.

"I never wanted this. Not *any* of it," Minxie said, not looking at Rhonda.

"We are so fucked up," Rhonda said, and laughed until her eyes ran with tears.


End file.
